


A Patchwork Family: Yule Gifts

by Lbilover



Series: A Patchwork Family Series [9]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Family, Humor, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9369908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: Frodo and Sam's first Yule as a couple is rather fraught with Sam's father coming for dinner, but all's well as ends better, as the Gaffer would say.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Yule 2007. Follows 'Out of Shadow, Into Light'.

** Late Foreyule, 1420 **   
  
_ It’s absurd to feel so nervous _ , thought Frodo as he paced across the front hall and then back again. Huan, who had paced with him for some minutes, had finally tired of such a pointless pursuit, and was now sitting tidily a few feet away, watching his master’s peculiar behaviour with a puzzled air. The little whippet’s head moved from side to side as though he was a spectator at a game of battledore and Frodo was the shuttlecock.   
  
Frodo cast an anxious look around him- by no means his first- but everything looked in perfect order. For the past few days, he and Sam had swept and scrubbed and waxed and polished until their beloved Bag End gleamed like a newly minted coin. The interior of the smial was decorated with pine boughs, and branches of glossy dark-green holly studded with bright red berries, and vases filled with the last of the mums so carefully nurtured by Sam: rust-red, deep copper and yellow-gold. The hobbits had been up at first light and in the kitchen cooking (with Huan providing assistance in cleaning up any spills), and the air was swimming with marvelous odours that caused the whippet’s keen nose to quiver with delight.    
  
All was now in readiness for their guests, and there was nothing left to do but wait for the ringing of the doorbell that would herald the arrival of Gaffer Gamgee and the Widow Rumble, who were joining Frodo and Sam for an early Yule dinner. Frodo could not have felt more apprehensive had it been Celeborn and Galadriel themselves who were expected.    
  
In years past, Frodo (like Bilbo before him) had paid an annual Yule visit to Number 3, Bagshot Row, where he presented the Gaffer with a purse of coin and a new weskit, distributed small gifts to the rest of the Gamgees, and admired the fatted goose that he had provided for their Yule dinner. But not this year. No, this year the Gaffer was coming to Bag End, for he was, in a sense, now part of Frodo’s family: an idea that must seem at least as strange to the old hobbit as it was to Frodo himself. And leaving aside the strangeness or any other anxieties inherent in having Sam’s father as a guest in their home, Frodo was still uncertain as to how the Gaffer viewed him and his relationship with Sam.    
  
In late October, Frodo had ridden to Great Smials to visit his ailing Aunt Eglantine (now happily recovered), regretfully leaving Sam behind to tend to some repair work at Bag End. When, to Frodo’s inexpressible joy, Sam had unexpectedly turned up at Tuckborough, the work having been completed more expeditiously than expected, Sam had informed a dumbfounded Frodo that he had come at the urging of the most unlikely hobbit possible: his Gaffer.    
  
If that was not enough of a surprise, Sam had then gone on to relate to Frodo the whole of the frank conversation he’d had with his father before leaving. It had been a day of wonders indeed, for Frodo had long since privately concluded that the Gaffer would never be won over to more than grudging acceptance of Sam’s decision to move into Bag End.   
  
Yet in the intervening weeks, despite Sam’s unflagging optimism and his assurances that his father had given up any more thought of Sam, as he put it, ‘seeing sense’, doubt lingered in Frodo’s mind.    
  
Outwardly, of course, the Gaffer continued to treat Frodo as he always had: with the utmost politeness and respect. But it was impossible to judge whether that deferential demeanour cloaked a secret resentment. Though Frodo had no desire for the Gaffer to clasp him to his bosom and call him ‘son’ (indeed, he rather thought he might pass out if such a thing were to occur), he knew that it was important to Sam that his father think well of Frodo, and thus it was of equal importance to Frodo, who valued Sam’s happiness above all things.   
  
A well-loved voice interrupted Frodo’s musings as he was turning on his heel to start another pass across the hall. “Frodo, you’re going to wear a hole in that floor and make poor Huan dizzy into the bargain.” It was Sam, who had arrived unnoticed and had apparently been observing Frodo’s restless perambulations. He had his hands on his hips and an amused expression in his brown eyes.   
  
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Frodo said, smiling ruefully. He stopped and held out his hands. “I know it’s absurd, but I can’t help but feel nervous. I want everything to be perfect, but I fear that your father may already be upset with me for dragging you off to Tuckborough for Yule, and considers this dinner a paltry substitute. And what if he doesn’t approve of the gift we have for him? I didn’t like for us to give him money as I used, but he may think our present too grand, as if we’re trying to win him over and-"   
  
Sam took Frodo’s proffered hands and pulled him close, stopping the flow of words by the simple expedient of placing his mouth firmly over Frodo’s. There was a lengthy silence, at the end of which Frodo murmured, all thoughts of gifts and gaffers flown, “Where  _ have _  you hidden the mistletoe this time, Sam?”    
  
Sam had taken a mischievous delight in hanging small bunches of the pale green leaves with white berries in out of the way places so that he could catch Frodo at unawares. This playful aspect to Sam’s personality had come as rather a shock to Frodo, but by no means an unpleasant one, for (enjoyable encounters aside) it was further evidence that Sam now truly thought of Bag End as his home. Considering that only two months earlier he had nearly despaired of this ever happening, Frodo often felt like pinching himself to be certain he wasn’t dreaming, that this happiness and content were really his.    
  
Sam chuckled. “That’d be telling, but I don’t need no mistletoe as an excuse to kiss you, Frodo.”   
  
“I’m glad to hear it; I was beginning to worry a little.” Frodo rested his head on Sam’s shoulder and, secure in that familiar embrace, felt his worries subside. “Mmm. You smell wonderful, Sam,” he said, rubbing his cheek against the softness of Sam’s linen shirt. But it wasn’t the scent of rosemary or of chamomile that he meant, though Sam had taken second turn in the bathing chamber and his hair was still slightly damp and his skin rosy with scrubbing.   
  
“Aye well, it’s a fair sight better than I’ve smelled at other times, that’s for certain, and I’ll never take a bath for granted again. Remember that foul stink in the marshes?” Sam asked, his voice laced with disgust. “I thought I’d never get rid of it nohow.”   
  
“You always smelled of home to me, Sam,” Frodo said quietly, “even there. Nothing could ever take that away.”   
  
“Such things you do say, Frodo Baggins.” Sam sounded embarrassed, but he held Frodo the tighter.   
  
At that very moment, however, the doorbell rang, and Frodo sighed and lifted his head. “Duty calls.”    
  
“So it does,” Sam agreed, releasing Frodo with some reluctance. “Though it might’ve held off for a few minutes, more’s the pity.”   
  
“Yes…” Frodo tweaked his rumpled waistcoat into place, straightened his shirt cuffs and smoothed his hair. Then he opened the front door to their guests, and prepared himself for the worst.   
  
***   
  
“Well, don’t them flowers look fine, Sam-lad,” the Gaffer said approvingly, looking around the hallway as Sam helped him off with his coat.   
  
“Aye, they do look a treat, don’t they, dad,” Sam replied, going to hang the coat on a hook. “Never seen such large blossoms before or such rich colours. It’s been a grand season in the garden and no mistake.”   
  
Sam’s father, to Frodo’s relief, appeared to be in exceptionally good humour. Nothing could have been more cordial than his “Evening, Mr. Frodo,” as he stepped over the threshold, cap in hand (though he  _ had _  eyed Frodo rather sharply, and Frodo had self-consciously wondered whether the fact that he and Sam had just been kissing was written all over his face).   
  
Frodo was therefore able to relax a trifle as he took Mrs. Rumble’s coat and scarf and handed them to Sam. He put the Widow to the blush by complimenting her on her attire: a handsome new apple-green woolen dress and a white fichu that Frodo recognised as her own handiwork, for she was an avid and prolific knitter. Frodo was, in fact, already in possession of several sets of bright blue mittens and hats (‘they bring out the colour of your eyes a treat, Mr. Frodo’) that she had knit for him, and fully expected (with some resignation) to receive yet another such from her today.   
  
Sam hung her coat next to his father’s, and then said brightly, rubbing his hands together, “Well now, dad, Mrs. Rumble, we’ve got a nice fire going in the sitting room and some mulled wine to warm you.” Though it was but a short walk from Bagshot Row to Bag End, the weather was raw, with grey skies and a biting wind, and the scent of cold had entered the smial with the two elderly hobbits and lingered on the air.    
  
Frodo and Sam had discussed beforehand how best to ensure that the Gaffer and Mrs. Rumble would not feel ill-at-ease during their visit, for they did not want to appear to be putting on airs. They had deliberately forgone wearing any of the finery they’d brought home from their travels, and settled on a dinner menu comprised of the same good plain fare that would have been served at Number Three for Yule: roast goose stuffed with apples and onions, sprouts, stewed mushrooms, mashed potatoes and parsnips, and plum pudding with hard sauce for afters.    
  
The sitting room was rather less formal than the parlour or drawing room, and appeared warm and cozy and welcoming with a cheerful blaze on the hearth and more greenery and vases of flowers distributed around the room and lending it a festive air. Frodo led the Gaffer and Mrs. Rumble to the sofa nearest the fire and adjusted the screen for their comfort, while Sam went to the sideboard to pour glasses of the gently steaming ruby wine laced with rich spices and fix plates of cheeses, biscuits and pickled vegetables for them to nibble on and take the edge off their appetites.    
  
Huan, meanwhile, went happily to greet their guests, as both were among the small group of hobbits whom he trusted. Frodo had given him a bath the previous day, and the white snip on his face and the white tips of his toes shone, while his sleek coat gleamed like blue satin in the firelight. Sam, as a surprise for Frodo, had made Huan a new collar in honour of the holidays: dark red leather tooled with a design of interlacing holly leaves.    
  
The whippet went first to the Widow, wagging his tail in greeting, and leaned against her legs, giving her a melting look from his dark eyes that clearly invited her to admire him in his collar. “Ain’t you the handsome one, Huan,” she exclaimed, and if a dog could be said to preen, Huan did. Frodo bit back a smile.    
  
Huan then turned his attention to the Gaffer, who spent some minutes quietly fussing over him. The gentle way that the old hobbit touched the whippet’s scarred body helped to soothe a justifiable resentment in Frodo’s breast. He had been inclined to think a little hardly of the Gaffer for a comment he had made to Sam in October, about Huan being no substitute for a child. The words had stung, for they had been designed to impress upon Sam that a life with Frodo would deprive him of children, and they had played on a deep-seated fear of Frodo’s that had caused a great deal of sorrow and hurt between him and Sam before all had been set to rights.    
  
But there was no doubting that Huan had grown to like the Gaffer as he did few others, and that alone spoke volumes to Frodo. Huan, Frodo had discovered, could not be tricked with false affection. When that rogue Till Burdock had appeared at Bag End one terrible day in September, claiming to be Huan’s rightful owner in the hopes of cheating Frodo out of money, it had been Huan himself who had proved Burdock a liar, and shown where he truly belonged. Frodo had come to trust Huan’s judgment as much as he did that of anyone- hobbit or Big Person- he knew.   
  
“You’re a good lad, Huan, a right good lad,” the Gaffer said under his breath, but Frodo heard him, and the note of true affection in his voice couldn’t help but soften Frodo toward him.   
  
Sam handed out the food and drink, and the Gaffer and Mrs. Rumble were then kept happily occupied with eating and drinking. Frodo pretended not to notice when the Widow slipped Huan several pieces of a very good (and expensive) Buckland yarg- after all, it was no more than he had done himself on any number of occasions. But he was hard put to it not to laugh, for he could see that Sam was struggling valiantly not to utter the words he always felt duty bound to say to Frodo on such occasions (even though he had long since accepted that they would do no good): “You’re going to teach him bad habits.”    
  
Instead Sam said, “I’d best go check on the goose, Frodo. It should be nearly done, and I don’t want it to overcook.” He ate one more pickled mushroom, and then finished his wine and set the glass down. He gave Frodo an encouraging smile as he got up from his chair, but Frodo watched him leave with regret. He had been dreading the inevitable before-dinner small talk, and from the expectant way the Gaffer and Mrs. Rumble were now staring at him, brown eyes fixed unblinkingly on his face like a pair of owls, the onus was clearly on Frodo to lead the conversation.    
  
For a moment panic struck as Frodo’s mind remained obstinately blank of any suitable topic: Gaffer Gamgee, relation, was quite a different proposition from Gaffer Gamgee, Baggins employee, and Frodo could hardly ask him if the hedges needed trimming. But then a happy inspiration struck him. “Mrs. Rumble,” he asked politely, “how is your Cinder these days? She must have grown considerably since last I saw her.”   
  
“Why, thank ‘ee for asking, Mr. Frodo,” replied Mrs. Rumble, her wrinkled face creasing into a delighted smile at the mention of the kitten, who had been a gift from Frodo and Sam after her elderly cat had passed on over the summer. “She’s starting to look like a proper cat now, and just t’other morning she caught a mouse that had been at my flour.”    
  
The Widow went on to entertain Frodo with a lengthy account of Cinder’s recent adventures, while the Gaffer (who had clearly heard all these stories before) nodded and drank a second glass of wine. She was still in full spate when Sam returned and announced that the goose, and therefore dinner, was now ready.   
  
Frodo rose with alacrity, grateful to have got off so lightly: not one of the awkward or embarrassing scenarios that his vivid imagination had conjured up in the preceding days had come to pass. There was still plenty of time for disaster to strike, of course, but so far, so good.   
  
***   
  
Sam carried the tray with the flaming plum pudding into the dining room. Mrs. Rumble, her face glowing with delight, clapped her hands like an excited child. “Oh Sam,” she exclaimed, “ain’t that a beauty.” And indeed, the bright purple-blue flames dancing merrily over the surface of the brandy-soaked concoction were a beautiful sight.    
  
The Gaffer, who was making inroads into a third glass of wine (in place of his usual beer), slapped his palm on his thigh and grinned broadly. “That it is, Violet, and no mistake.”   
  
Frodo, who by contrast had drunk only one small glass of the wine (determined to keep his wits about him on this occasion), stared at Hamfast Gamgee in amazement. And it wasn’t only because Mrs. Rumble’s given name had been revealed to him for the first time. For not a single critical word had crossed the Gaffer’s lips since he’d arrived, and he’d had nothing but praise for the meal.   
  
_ Where is the real Gaffer Gamgee, and what have you done with him? _  Frodo was tempted to ask, for the genial old hobbit seated across the table from him was as unlike the rather dour figure whom he had known (and sometimes feared) since he was a tweenager as a hobbit could be.    
  
But perhaps, thought Frodo suddenly, as a light dawned, he had the question backward. Perhaps  _ this _  was the real Gaffer Gamgee, the one his family knew, the one he would never feel comfortable putting on display before the hobbit who was his employer. Perhaps here was the final proof, if any proof should have been needed other than Sam’s own conviction, that the Gaffer had indeed decided to accept Frodo as a permanent part of Sam’s life now. It was an encouraging thought.   
  
Frodo transferred his wondering gaze to Sam, seeming more than ever  _ his _  Sam, who was carefully setting the plum pudding down on the table.  _ I owe you an apology, my dear _ , Frodo thought. At that very moment, almost as if he’d heard Frodo, Sam glanced up. Blue eyes met brown over the top of dancing flames that were starting slowly to die, and they exchanged a look of perfect understanding.    
  
_ See, Frodo-love, didn’t I tell you my old dad had come around? _   
  
_ So you did, Sam dear, and you were right- as always. _   
  
***   
  
In the Gaffer’s slice of plum pudding, he found a silver wishbone, a symbol of good luck, and he chuckled and said, “Aye, the Gamgees always do land on their feet, no matter how bad things might be seemingly.” Frodo had to agree.   
  
In Mrs. Rumble’s slice, she found a silver thimble, and laughed merrily as she held it up on the tip of her little finger. “Seems every year I get the thimble, Mr. Frodo, though I reckon it has more to do with my sewing and knitting than my thrifty ways.” And she gave him a significant look. Yes, Frodo thought, there were definitely more blue mittens in his future.   
  
Sam found the silver coin in his slice of plum pudding: wealth would be his in the coming year. “I’m the wealthiest hobbit as ever lived already,” he said, eyes bright as he looked around the table. Frodo held out his hand, and Sam took it, right there in front of his father. The Gaffer didn’t even so much as blink.   
  
In Frodo’s slice there was a silver anchor. Once, not so long ago, this discovery would have filled him with dread, foreshadowing a trip to the Havens and a lonely future in the West without Sam. But everything was changed now, and he held the tiny charm in the palm of his hand and felt only peace and joy. For beyond all hope, he had found his safe harbour- right here at Bag End with Sam.   
  
***    
  
“Dad, here you go. This is from me and Frodo.” Sam handed the large rectangular box tied with green ribbon to his father, and settled on the sofa beside him, sitting half-turned toward him to watch him open it.   
  
After finishing their pudding, the four hobbits (and Huan, of course) had returned to the sitting room, where Frodo had poured the tea and passed around a plate of spice and iced lemon cookies. Now they were all settled comfortably with Huan curled up at Frodo’s side, his nose tucked under one front leg as he napped. They sipped their tea and filled up the corners, and eventually Sam got up to distribute the presents.    
  
Considering his earlier fretful state, Frodo felt remarkably calm as he watched the Gaffer pull the ribbon loose and lift the lid on the box. Sam had assured him many times that his father would like his present very well, and really, how could he doubt Sam’s instincts any longer?    
  
Sam had once commented to Frodo how his father had fingered the fabric of his Elven cloak and marvelled over the workmanship and softness of it, almost wistfully. They’d decided then that it would be a fine thing if they could have such a cloak made for him. Of course it was impossible to give him one made of material woven by the Lady and her maidens in Lothlórien, as theirs had been, but they’d found the next best thing: a fine dark green wool made by the Elves in Rivendell. They’d had it fashioned into a plainly cut but beautifully warm and comfortable cloak, with a large shiny brass button, easy for the Gaffer’s arthritic fingers to fasten, at the neck.    
  
The Gaffer was rendered speechless for a full minute at least as he held the cloak up and turned it this way and that to the admiring exclamations of Mrs. Rumble. “Sam,” he said at length in a gruff voice, “you oughtn’t to have done it, nor you neither, Mr. Frodo. What’s the likes of me to do with owt this grand?” But his hands gripped the soft wool tightly as though daring anyone to snatch it away from him.   
  
“Now don’t  _ you _  start in, dad,” scolded Sam, with a laughing glance at Frodo. “Just you say ‘thank you very kindly’ and not one word more.”   
  
There was a glint in the Gaffer’s grey eyes at this. “Managing, just like your mam was,” he complained. But at Sam’s pointed look he added, breaking into a smile, “But I do thank ‘ee both very kindly.”   
  
“You are most welcome indeed, Mr. Gamgee,” Frodo replied warmly. “And now you must try the cloak on so that we may all admire you in it.”   
  
Flushing a little, the old hobbit, with assistance from his son, got up from the sofa and tried on his new cloak. “Oh Ham,” exclaimed the Widow, “don’t you look fine.” The Gaffer flushed even redder, but Frodo noticed that he held himself a little straighter and was clearly reluctant to remove the cloak and put it away for the time being.   
  
Mrs. Rumble was delighted with her gift: a delicate porcelain teapot painted with blush pink roses, and she admired it for quite some time. Her ‘best’ teapot for entertaining guests, Frodo had noticed on a visit earlier in the autumn, had a chip at the end of the spout, and the dear lady was not so well off that she could easily afford to replace it. There were a matching creamer and honey pot to go with it, and though she protested at the extravagance of her gift, she (like the Gaffer) showed every evidence of being prepared to put up a fight if anyone tried to take it from her.    
  
In addition, Sam had made a variety of small toys for Cinder, using catnip from the garden, and the Widow got up and hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek for his thoughtfulness. She then gave Frodo a kiss, too, although she blushed even redder than the Gaffer had, especially when he returned the kiss and gave her a hug for good measure.   
  
Sam’s gift from his father was a new pipe that the Gaffer had made himself; the bowl was a handsome burled briarwood, beautifully finished. Sam didn’t wait to try it, but immediately fetched some Longbottom leaf and filled and lit it. He puffed away, and then smiled around the stem of the pipe. “It draws a treat, dad,” he said. His father nodded his head, well satisfied.   
  
The small packet that Sam then placed in Frodo’s hands was a present from Gaffer Gamgee. The focus of all eyes suddenly, Frodo untied the twine around the paper, hoping that he would do adequate justice to whatever it was, for it was clear that Sam and the Widow already knew, and were waiting with bated breath for his reaction. The twine came free, the stiff paper rustled and parted beneath his fingers. Frodo stared. And then stared some more.    
  
It was a small figure in the shape of a whippet, carved from fine-grained apple wood. Frodo picked it up and cradled it gently in his hands, and for the life of him could not find a single word to say; it would have been impossible to speak at any rate, considering the lump in his throat.    
  
The whippet was a faithful miniature of Huan, with the same graceful S-shaped curves, sleek lines and well defined muscles, and to Frodo’s delight, the Gaffer had carved him in what Frodo always thought of as his ‘typical’ pose: ears raised atop his head, one front foot lifted just off the ground, head tilted slightly to one side. This was how Huan had looked the very first time that Frodo had ever set eyes upon him, outside the baker’s shop in Bywater the previous March. The detail in the carving was astonishing. The nails of his tiny paws, the delicate rosed ears, the tapering whip-thin tail, the large round eyes: each was depicted with such realism that Frodo half expected the little dog to blink or yawn or wag his tail.    
  
The silence stretched as Frodo struggled for words to express adequately, and without embarrassing himself or the Gaffer, exactly what this gift meant to him.    
  
“I’m afraid it ain’t perfect, Mr. Frodo,” the Gaffer said, leaning forward. He sounded apologetic and a little anxious, clearly fearing the worst. “My eyesight not being what it used to be.”   
  
Frodo supposed that in one sense what the Gaffer said was true: it wasn’t perfect, for there were indeed several small flaws in the carving. But then no doubt there were hobbits who would say that Huan, with his ragged-edged ear and the pale scars that marred the smoothness of his fur, wasn’t perfect either. And they would be wrong.   
  
“This is one of the loveliest gifts I’ve ever received in my life, Mr. Gamgee,’ Frodo said simply, “and to me it is quite, quite perfect.” His eyes met the Gaffer’s and he made no attempt to hide his emotions. “You may be sure that I will treasure this forever.”    
  
“Well now, I reckon a hobbit can’t ask for more than that, Mr. Frodo,” the Gaffer replied in a gruff voice.   
  
Frodo held out the carving to Huan, who had been studying it with interest, his head tilted in the precise attitude of his tiny replica. “What do you think of this, Huan?” he asked. Huan sniffed at the wooden whippet and seemed disappointed when it didn’t move or react in any way.    
  
“Do you reckon he’s giving us a hint, Frodo?” Sam teased as he began to open his present from Mrs. Rumble (which was a butter-yellow wool jumper similar to several others he owned). Frodo simply had to laugh, for it was a measure of how much he had changed since knowing Huan that the thought of adding a second whippet to their family didn’t seem such a bad idea at all.   
  
The very last present was from the Widow to Frodo, and not unexpectedly the first thing Frodo saw when he unwrapped it was a pair of wool mittens and a hat: but both in a vivid scarlet.    
  
“These are beautiful, Mrs. Rumble. Thank you so very much,” Frodo said brightly, relieved that at least they weren’t blue this time (although, as Sam had pointed out, it  _ was _  nice to have spares in case a mitten or two went missing).    
  
But then beneath mittens and hat, Frodo discovered a third garment of the same vivid scarlet- a matching scarf no doubt. Although as he unfolded it, he thought it was the most oddly shaped scarf he had ever seen. In fact, it really looked less like a scarf than a…  _ pony rug? _   
  
“Why, it’s a coat for Huan!” he exclaimed, delighted, as realisation dawned. “It’s very smart looking. And how cleverly you’ve made it, Mrs. Rumble.”    
  
For it  _ was _  fashioned like a pony rug, but with an extra piece that was designed to pass between Huan’s front legs and fasten over his loin with a pair of long ties that were attached, so that the thinner skin of the whippet’s chest and stomach would be protected from the cold. The thick felted wool was lined on the inside with soft grey-blue flannel, almost the exact shade of Huan’s fur, and there was trim of the same colour along all the edges.    
  
The Widow beamed at Frodo’s compliments, but said, “I can’t take all the credit, Mr. Frodo. It were Sam came up with the idea when I asked him if there weren’t owt I could make for Huan for Yule.”    
  
Frodo  _ had _  mentioned the idea of a coat for Huan to Sam several weeks ago, and Sam had nodded thoughtfully and allowed as how it would probably be a good idea once the weather turned colder. “Sam, you are very sly, you know,” Frodo said, and Sam grinned.   
  
“Why don’t you try the coat on Huan, Frodo,” Sam suggested. “I gave Mrs. Rumble the measurements, but it’d best to make certain it fits him proper.”   
  
So Frodo did, and to Sam’s satisfaction and that of the Widow, the coat fit him perfectly. The bright scarlet looked cheerful and warm against the blue-grey of Huan’s fur, and Frodo couldn’t help but think (in an admittedly biased fashion) that there couldn’t be a handsomer dog in all of Middle-earth.   
  
“And now the two of you will match when you go out on your walks,” Mrs. Rumble said happily. “Though I do think that blue brings out the colour of your eyes a treat, Mr. Frodo,” she added, sounding regretful.   
  
Frodo, agreeing with this observation in a somewhat unsteady voice as he removed Huan’s coat, tried  _ not _  to imagine the odd looks he would get if he went out dressed to match his dog. And as to what Merry and Pippin were likely to say, well, it defied imagination, but many hours of teasing would undoubtedly be the result.    
  
He met Sam’s eyes; they were brimful of laughter. A surge of love welled up inside Frodo: love for Sam, of course, and for Huan, but also for these two dear old hobbits who had put so much thought and care into their Yule gifts for him and Sam.    
  
“More tea, Mrs. Rumble?” Frodo asked, his heart too full to say anything more.   
  
A short time later, seeing his father yawn and his head begin to nod over his teacup, Sam gave Frodo a significant look, and Frodo, taking the hint, suggested that as it was getting late, perhaps it was time their guests were heading home. Sam decided to accompany his father and Mrs. Rumble and make certain they got back to the Row safely, as it was now full dark and only a quarter moon to light their way.   
  
At the front door, Frodo kissed Mrs. Rumble good-bye on her soft wrinkled cheek, but he and the Gaffer (looking resplendent in his new cloak) only shook hands. Things might have changed between them- but not quite _ that _  much.   
  
***   
  
While Sam was gone, Frodo fed Huan his dinner, and then found a large tray and cleared the remaining dirty dishes from the dining room and the sitting room. He scraped the plates and set them in a basin of hot soapy water to soak and got busy with washing the cutlery and glasses.    
  
Huan, having finished his meal with his usual lightning efficiency (despite the number of treats he’d been surreptitiously fed by the Widow), settled contentedly in his basket by the hearth. He rested his chin on the edge, and watched Frodo as he moved about the kitchen.   
  
“We’re very lucky, you and I,” Frodo commented to Huan as he carefully dried one of the fragile crystal wine glasses with a linen towel. His eyes went to the little wooden whippet that he had stood on the kitchen table so he could continue to admire it. “Very lucky indeed, Huan.”   
  
He set down the glass just in time, for a pair of arms suddenly appeared seemingly out of thin air and snatched him up into a tight embrace. “Not near so lucky as I am,” whispered Sam in his ear.   
  
“Oh no,” Frodo protested, returning Sam’s embrace. “ _ You _  are the wealthy one, my dear.  _ I _  am the lucky one. Don’t forget the silver penny you found in your plum pudding.”   
  
Sam laughed, and released Frodo, but held onto one hand and began tugging him toward the door. “Leave the washing up, Frodo-love, and come with me. We can finish it later.”   
  
“All right, but you needn’t drag me, Sam!” Frodo tossed the dishtowel over the back of a chair, and followed after Sam.    
  
Sam led him down the hall to their bedchamber, pausing twice along the way to steal a kiss when they passed beneath a sprig of mistletoe hung from the ceiling beams. But eventually they reached their room, and Frodo realised that Sam must have returned some little time ago, for the fire had been built up, soft cushions arranged on the hearthrug and a tray holding two glasses and a bottle of pale golden wine was waiting on the table.    
  
“Why Sam, you’ve been busy behind my back,” Frodo said. So this was why Sam had wanted him to abandon the washing up. He couldn’t think of a nicer reason.   
  
“I have,” replied Sam, as he went to the table and poured their wine. “I reckon we’ve earned a little cuddle by the fire after all the cleaning and cooking we’ve done. And we’ll not have this much quiet and privacy at Great Smials, that’s for certain.”   
  
Frodo sank down cross-legged onto a cushion. “Very true. Especially with my cousins around.” Huan, who had accompanied them, settled beside his master, and Frodo bent and kissed the soft fur on top of his head. Then he smiled at Sam, and patted the cushion beside him. “Sit, my dear,” he invited.    
  
Sam handed Frodo his glass and sat down next to him. He put his arm around Frodo’s shoulders and they sat close together in contented silence, sipping the sweet wine and watching the flames flicker and dance.    
  
“It was a lovely evening, Sam,” Frodo murmured at length.   
  
“Aye, that it was.”   
  
“You can say ‘I told you so’ if you like. I shan’t mind.”   
  
Sam laughed, a low rumble in his chest that warmed Frodo like a blessing. “I’ll pass. I’d rather give you your Yule gift if you’ve a mind to see it.” They had decided to exchange gifts this night in the privacy of Bag End, rather than wait until Yule itself when they would be at Great Smials.    
  
“Of course I want to see it,” Frodo replied, then added quietly, “Although I feel as if I have everything I could possibly want right here, Sam.”   
  
The wine tasted even sweeter on Sam’s lips. They drew apart at last, reluctantly, and Sam got up and left the room, returning a good five minutes later with Frodo’s gift, which he had obviously had well hidden. Sam sat down again and handed him the present; it was wrapped in red paper and tied with a silver ribbon.    
  
The package was about two feet square, solid and heavy in his hands. Frodo shook it a little, but it didn’t feel like a box and nothing jiggled or rattled inside it. He looked curiously at Sam, who was watching him with an expression of the greatest anticipation.    
  
“Go on, open it,” Sam urged. “I’m about to bust and no mistake.”   
  
“All right, I shan’t tease you any longer.” Frodo untied the ribbon and pulled free the paper to reveal a gilt-framed oil painting. “Sam!” he uttered, staring at it in amazement. “Oh Sam, how is this possible? Oh my dearest, dearest Sam. I thought I should never see this again.” And then he flung an arm around Sam’s neck and held him tightly for a very, very long time.   
  
“Well now, not that I ain’t appreciative, Frodo-love,” said Sam, “but you can’t admire my gift if you keep your face buried in my neck.”   
  
Frodo drew back with a shaky laugh and looked at the painting. “Oh, it is beautiful, Sam, as beautiful as I remembered.” He had seen it once before: many months ago, in a shop in Minas Tirith. He had thought it one of the most beautiful paintings he’d ever seen, and been sorely tempted to find some way to take it home with him; but both the cost and the inconvenience of trying to carry such a cumbersome item on the road had made him decide, reluctantly, against the idea. But he had never quite forgotten it, and wished sometimes, with regret, that he had not allowed practical matters to rule him.    
  
“But Sam, how did you get this here from Minas Tirith? I believe you must have become the magician I once predicted you might.”   
  
“No magic, only help from Pippin and Strider: they arranged the buying and the transport,” Sam said, smiling. “Even so there was a time or two I wondered if maybe it had got lost on the road, and all our plans had been for naught. But just when I’d about given up hope, it finally arrived, a couple of weeks back, in time for Yule as I’d planned.”   
  
“But it must have cost you a fortune, Sam!” Frodo well remembered the price the shopkeeper had been asking for it. It had been very dear.   
  
“Didn’t I have that gold Mr. Bilbo gave me in Rivendell?” Sam said reasonably. “I couldn’t think of a better thing to spend it on than this painting. I know how much you wished you could have brought it home with you.”   
  
“But how did you know, my dear?” Frodo asked, looking at him with eyes that were bright with unshed tears. “For I never said a word about it, not even to you.”   
  
“You didn’t need to, Frodo. I saw it in your eyes when we were in that shop,” Sam replied. “If I could have bought it for you then, I would have, and carried it in my arms all the way home. But when Mr. Bilbo gave me the gold, well, that changed everything, didn’t it, and it was the first thing I thought of.”   
  
“You are a most remarkable hobbit, Sam Gamgee,” said Frodo softly, “and I love you very much.”   
  
“The first time you ever said that to me was right there.” Sam lightly touched the painting. “Do you remember?”   
  
“As if I ever could forget.” Frodo rested his head against Sam’s shoulder. “I didn’t believe such happiness would ever be mine, and then we woke up in Cormallen, alive beyond all hope, and it was as if some veil had been drawn back from my heart while I slept, and I understood at last how much I’d come to love you.”   
  
“I’d like to go back to Ithilien some day,” Sam said thoughtfully. “It seemed more like home to me than most places we visited on our Journey. And now with Prince Faramir and Lady Éowyn living there, I reckon it’s beautifuller than ever.”   
  
“Perhaps one day we shall, Sam. But at least we have this painting to remind us, and to look at it makes me feel almost as if I  _ am _  there. Oh Sam, can you not smell the thyme and bay and sage?” Frodo asked, almost as one in a dream.   
  
For the painting was indeed of Ithilien: the springtime Ithilien they had known on their Journey, where thickets of tamarisk and terebinth, of bay and olive grew in wild disarray; where creeping thymes covered ancient stone walls, and sages bloomed in red and blue and pale green; where flowing streams fed small clear lakes filled with water-lilies; where silver waterfalls gleamed like mithril in distant mountains. It was the Ithilien, too, that they had discovered after waking from their long sleep, where among the fragrant trees and herbs they had declared their love to each other for the first time, and where they had wandered the groves hand in hand in peace and healing. Ithilien had been a blessed place for them both, and a place of new beginnings.   
  
“Where would you like to hang it?” asked Sam. “In the study?”   
  
Frodo shook his head. “No, Sam. I’d like to hang it here in our bedroom, where no one will look at it but us. And now,” he added, “I think it’s time that I gave you your present.” He rose to his feet. “I shall be back in less than a minute.”   
  
He went to the study and took from one of the desk drawers a large envelope. The rightness of his gift had never been more apparent, though Sam would undoubtedly protest. Frodo rather looked forward to convincing him otherwise, and left the room, smiling.   
  
Sam, unlike Frodo, did not try to figure out what was in his present, but immediately opened the envelope and took out the parchment inside: it had nothing on it but a lot of close writing in Frodo’s flowing script and at the bottom, an official looking seal and seven signatures in red ink, among them those of Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. Sam’s eyes went round as saucers as he read, and then he burst into tears.   
  
“You shouldn’t ought to have,” Sam sobbed against Frodo’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t ought to have. It’s too much, Frodo.”   
  
“Nonsense. Of course I should, and nothing could ever be too much for you,” said Frodo, holding him close. “Bag End is your home, too, and you and I should own it equally.”   
  
“Me, owner of Bag End,” Sam whispered tearfully. “It’s like a dream.”   
  
“A good one, I hope,” Frodo teased, and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, dried Sam’s tears. “I want us to be equal in all things, Sam,” he went on more seriously, “and should anything happen to me,” he silenced Sam’s immediate protest with a finger over his lips, “I should like to know that no Sackville-Baggins or anyone else will be able to cause you worry or grief.”    
  
“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Sam said stubbornly. “Or if it does, well, it’ll happen to the both of us.”   
  
“I  _ am _  thirteen years your elder, Sam,” Frodo pointed out, but Sam, to his surprise, began to smile with genuine amusement. “What?”   
  
“Frodo Baggins,” Sam said, shaking his head, “here you go a-giving me a gift that makes me feel, well, like my heart will just burst from my chest with happiness, and then you start in with all your what-ifs and maybes and gloomy thoughts. What am I going to do with you?”    
  
But Sam seemed to have something in mind, in fact, if the sudden spark in his eyes was anything to go by. He pushed Frodo gently onto his back, and bent low over him. “I’ve a mind to prove to you that you ain’t so old as all that, Frodo,” Sam declared, a determined look on his face.   
  
“Please do,” said Frodo.   
  
~end~


End file.
